Invincible (Elite Doms of Washington Book 6)

by Elizabeth SaFleur

  The man straightened. “The Connecticut Alliance of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Youth. They could use the money.”

  “Let that bitch’s precious Renoirs, Persian rugs and ridiculous Rochard French doll collection clothe and feed the very people she railed against. And, Eric. . .” He moved closer to him. “It probably goes without saying but I’m going to say it anyway. Any personal items we find, you bring to me. Not Tony. Not Ryan. Are we clear on that?”

  Eric nodded. “Whatever you need. Why don’t I go check into my hotel, get over this jet lag, and we can start fresh tomorrow?” His gaze stalled on the yellowed photograph propped against the small lamp. “Give you time to go over the house yourself.”

  The man also was observant. He would be, given his job. “Good. Dinner tonight. Eight o’clock, suit? We’ll talk then.” He turned away. He had no more words left in him. At least none that wanted out.

  Eric left him, and he sat on the edge of the bed, blessedly alone except for the memories that had their hooks in him like they always would.

  5

  “Come on,” Eric growled at his phone. Three eternal minutes later, the blue dot signaling where he was on the map finally populated with winding streets and historic points of interest.

  “Starting route.” Siri’s male, Australian, voice cut through the incessant pinging of rain on the car roof.

  “About time you showed up, hoss.”

  “Turn left onto Johnson Street. Then stay right.”

  Eric spun the steering wheel into the driving rain toward the Grafton Inn, now that he knew where it was. Jesus, don’t let the place be a dump, though he doubted Alexander frequented anything less than a Chateau Relais property. Plus, yesterday, his other assistant, Clarisse, said Alexander had suggested the place, something about a renovated Connecticut Inn from the 1700s blah, blah, blah. How bad could it be?

  Eric urged the car forward. Sheets of rain blew sideways across the road and water blanketed the asphalt. This was going to take a while.

  His phone vibrated, cutting off the route guidance. Now what? One glance, however, had him pull over and scramble for his phone’s on button.

  “Ryan. Thanks for calling me back.” He pushed the car into “park.”

  “Eric. You made it a little early, I see.”

  Jesus, what was with everyone pointing out the fact he’d jumped on the first plane to get to Alexander? Didn’t everyone do that when the man called? “I did.”

  “I spoke with Tony earlier.”

  Of course Ryan had. Or, perhaps spy Tony had called him.

  “So did I. Also witnessed a half a million-dollar antique go up in smoke and met Marston Wynter.” Or re-met him. The man clearly didn’t recall their brief encounter from a few years ago. “I learned the Wynters had a second son. It’s been an interesting and informative day so far.”

  The male voice on the other end of the phone chuffed at Eric’s sarcasm.

  “Sorry. Jet lagged.” Eric sighed heavily. “Just trying to avoid any landmines. Anything I need to know?”

  “No.”

  Okay, then. Perhaps he’d push it a little. Sure, Alexander had said to only come to him, and given how he’d seen the man handle people who ignored his concise orders during a play scene, he probably shouldn’t tempt fate. Or, rather, he’d love to under better circumstances, like once he convinced the man to secure him to a St. Andrew’s Cross with one or two niggling limits in place because he’d let that man do pretty much anything to him. In the meantime, he needed some answers.

  “Well, Alexander seems … ” How did Eric explain this next part? I’ve waited almost forty years to be standing in this room. His chest ached a little when he remembered Alexander’s unshielded, vulnerable words.

  “What? How is he? Is everything okay?”

  Good. It was about time someone was worried about the man. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Because he’d make it so. “It would help to know what I’m dealing with before I suggest he sell sentimental items. I mean, did you ever meet Charles Wynter?” He doubted it given the likely age difference, but why not go there? “Alexander seems—"

  “No.” Another clipped answer from Ryan. “Just follow Alexander’s lead.”

  “Okay, then. Guess I’ll carry on.”

  “Thanks, Eric.” The line went dead.

  Oh, yes, there was history here. Damn. Ghosts were the hardest competition to deal with. From his quick glance at the photograph in that bedroom shrine, this Charles guy had been a looker. The woman with red-gold hair sandwiched between them raised another mystery he’d solve another day. For now, his mind filled with images of a younger Alexander, undeniably happy, his arms intertwined with this mysterious second Wynter son. An odd twinge went off in his chest at the thought the man had loved and lost. It was as if a little bit of the magic in the world dissolved with the realization Alexander was human after all and not the indefatigable man he’d built up in his mind.

  He scrubbed his chin. He should go back to the Wynter house. Tony drove off right after him, no doubt dismissed by Alexander. That meant Alexander was alone. A gust of wind swayed the car a little. The weather was not cooperating. He pulled back onto the street, but didn’t turn around. He’d go to the Grafton Inn, get cleaned up, handle his throbbing cock, and take a nap. At forty-eight years old, he didn’t handle jet lag as well as he had when younger. He’d meet Alexander for dinner, hopefully alone, and let him know he was up for anything that helped—anything—including himself.

  “Get in the left lane,” the navigation app called out.

  “So bossy, hoss.” Just the way he liked it, especially if orders came from a certain silver-haired, six-foot-five, grieving man who really needed a distraction. Sex was a spectacular diversion from loneliness. His whole life stood as evidence.

  6

  The red taillights of his Mercedes finally disappeared around a bend in the driveway. It had taken some persuasion to induce Tony to go the Grafton Inn without him, but Alexander needed to be alone with his newly acquired real estate. He blinked rainwater from his eyes and ascended the stone steps slowly despite the precipitation beating down on him like tiny fists from heaven.

  In the blue, front parlor, he wrestled an armchair to the window, letting it down with a hard thunk right where Alice Wynter’s desk once sat. Water beads clinging to his coat rolled off to wet the chintz. As he lowered himself to the cushion, a tobacco scent rose up. So this had been Raymond’s chair. How had that man stayed married to that harpy all those years?

  He scrubbed his hands over his hair, and a loud roll of thunder answered his growl. Let all of hell storm. He’d fulfilled every promise he’d held close for forty years, and he was going to dwell in that victory for as long as he damn well felt like it.

  A long whistle sounded from the portico as the sudden Nor’easter winds rushed through leaks around the front door, and the chandelier’s light died. Darkness enveloped him. Who cared if the electricity went out? He didn’t need light. Through the window, the archway that led to the family gravesite remained visible in the rising storm.

  He settled his forearms on the tufted armrests and, for a change, allowed his mind to wander wherever the hell it wanted. Memories he’d driven into the ground rose up like the dead.

  Knife-cold wind searing his face as he rounded the corner in Harvard Square.

  Two angry figures kicking a boy lying in a fetal position in the snow.

  The ache in his knuckles as his fist landed on the nearest guy.

  The smell of beer and cigarettes rising.

  And, later, warm flesh against his under cheap sheets in a dorm room.

  The first time he’d stepped onto that marble portico, thirty feet from where he now sat.

  The young girl with rose gold hair flying down the stairway to launch herself on to Charles, their eyes lit up with so much joy to see one another.

  The three of them trading kisses, mouths on each other, everywhere …

  Lik
e a runaway train, his mind barreled forward to Charles tumbling to the dirty floor of that horrible Chinese restaurant on San Francisco’s Market Street. Rebecca’s eyes lifting to him as she crouched next to Charles, and the silent message swimming in all that pale gray. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  “Enough.” His lids snapped open. He’d drifted into dangerous territory.

  A crack of lightning momentarily lit up the Memorial’s entranceway. Shadows darted across the stone wall. He leaned forward as another flash across the murky sky illuminated something. No, someone. Who the hell would be sneaking around during a storm? Another crack of lightning lit up the figure long enough to see it disappear through the stone arch.

  Of course. “Marston Wynter, it’s time you and I end this game.” Alexander stood and headed outside.

  The wind whipped his coat around his legs as he took his time on the slick bricks leading to the Memorial. The solar lights did little to light the way. They looked as tired as he felt. He paused in the archway. A lone figure hunched over Charles’ grave marker, an inadequate trench coat fluttering around a thin frame. It was a woman. She turned. A flash of lightning shot across the sky illuminating her face. Pale gray eyes pierced the gloaming, and rose gold hair spilled from underneath a beret dripping with rainwater.

  Water ran down his neck and seeped under his coat collar, and he pushed hot, heavy breaths in and out of his throat. “No.” His word was no more than a whisper lost in the wind and rain. Adrenaline kicked through his system. Muscles tightened in his chest. It couldn’t be … The woman shifted on her feet, and he froze. If he moved, she might disappear, proving she was a trick of the shadows formed from branches and headstones. Perhaps she was a former servant coming to pay respects. His brain offered many possible answers to the identity of this woman. He hadn’t seen her for nearly forty years, but his gut knew the truth.

  Her chest expanded as if taking in a long breath and then she gave him a familiar, hesitant smile. “Hello.”

  His brain caught up. “Rebecca.”

  7

  Rebecca’s hand flew to her throat, fingers landing on her thrumming pulse as in four strides, Alexander closed the distance between them. Leaves skidded under her feet, and the ground tilted sideways. His hand gripped her bicep and yanked her upright.

  “Jesus, Rebecca.” His blue eyes seared through the darkness.

  She found her feet and pulled her arm free. “H-hello, Alexander.” Stammering, great.

  He ran his hand down his face. “How are you here?”

  “I heard the place sold. I wanted to see Charles one last time.” Her voice, breathy and pitchy, belonged to a little girl, not a grown woman. Alexander’s presence always had knocked her a little off balance. Seemed time hadn’t changed his impact on her.

  A crack of lightning made her jump.

  “The storm’s getting worse. Let’s go inside.” He moved to touch her again.

  Inside? No, no, no, she couldn’t go inside that house. She stepped backward, and his hands circled her bicep once more.

  “It’s mine now,” he said. “As of yesterday.”

  “That means … ”

  His attention drifted over her shoulder toward Charles’ headstone. “Yes. This is the first time I’ve seen him.”

  “Alexander, I—’’

  “Inside.”

  No one had spoken to her in such a commanding tone in years, but her insides reacted as if no time had passed between them, as if she was still that young woman who’d knelt at this man’s feet in a nanosecond if he’d desired it. He tugged her forward, and she let him.

  “We’ll talk,” he said.

  That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? She and Alexander never just talked.

  Inside, Alexander shrugged off his coat and hung it over one of the staircase railings. “Electricity’s out. I’ll start a fire.” He strode into the formal living room, leaving her standing in a pool of rainwater in the entrance hall with its over-the-top marble floor and columns. Did he expect she’d follow him? Should she? Her heartbeat danced like a timpani drummer had taken command, and it made it hard to think. Her legs itched to run as if the memories this house exhumed would kill her. Well, they could. If Marston caught her here … Her hands found their way to her throat again as if that would help her breathe better. Of all the places in the world for a reunion with Alexander—something she’d worked very hard to avoid—it had to be here?

  A glow grew in the large archway separating the entry-meant-to-intimidate from the formal living room. She jumped when a loud, crackly, pop echoed off the marble.

  “Rebecca? Are you coming in?”

  At the sound of his deep, gravelly voice, she released a breath and hesitantly walked into the room where she’d lost everything. Alexander crouched near the fire, the flames lighting up the angles of his face.

  “This place hasn’t changed much.” She moved closer to the beckoning warmth.

  “It will.” He stood and placed a poker in the andiron set. He gestured to the familiar long couch, the chintz now faded and worn, a tarp thrown casually to the side. “Sit.”

  Her legs moved at his direction. Okay, one thing hadn’t changed. Sit. Stay. Bend over. Commands she’d heard a hundred times a million years ago had the same effect today. Her body reacted without question to Alexander.

  She took the offered seat and rubbed her chilled, chapped hands together. Why hadn’t she dressed better? Why hadn’t she run when she saw him? Why had she come at all?

  He lowered himself to an armchair a few feet away, his deep blue eyes trained on her. Silver flecked his temples, and lines etched his forehead, but he still exuded the same intimidating masculinity she’d lost herself in so many years ago.

  “You look good.” His gaze traveled her body. “Well.”

  “Not as good as you.”

  It was true. Men and their supernatural aging abilities. It really wasn’t fair. But then when had she ever thought life was fair? Genetics gifted this man with a striking face, with height, a powerful physique, and with courage—a character trait she lacked. He looked like wealth. Always had, even when none of them could afford a cup of coffee.

  His blue eyes, more guarded than she recalled, studied her with unwavering intensity. “I didn’t see you drive up.”

  “I left my car outside the gate. Walked inside.”

  “I did the same thing.”

  “Just like you said you would.” He’d said he’d be back and stride in with a sledgehammer. Weren’t those his words?

  “I kept all the promises I made that day, even the ones I didn’t want to keep.”

  Prickly heat filled her face, and her fingers would not stop shaking.

  His finger went to his lips. “Where have you been?”

  Okay, he was cutting straight to the chase. She forced a small inhale. “Everywhere.”

  His nostrils flared. “Not everywhere.” His stare had once been like standing in sunlight. Now a chill ran through her body from head to foot.

  A stupid thought flitted into her paralyzed mind. This is how deer felt before the truck plowed over them. “You live here now?” she blurted. “Not in D.C. anymore?”

  His brows arched up. How could he be surprised she’d checked up on him? She shrugged. “I wondered where you were. I looked you up on Google. You were at a charity auction or something. I almost reached out to you, but so much time had passed, and I wasn’t sure. I mean, given how things … ended.”

  “Oh? I tried reaching you, as well. Unfortunately, when we parted there was no internet, and, well, by the time there was, I had stopped looking. I figured you meant what you said.” His jaw tightened ever so slightly.

  Oh, if you knew. “You have to believe me, back then, it was … hard for me, too.”

  “Define hard.”

  Fear sliced through her chest, and she was so, so tired of it. She swallowed. “Walk through fire hard.” There, the hard, cold truth. “We loved each other.” She looked dow
n at her twisting fingers, her voice dropping. “More than love if there is such a state.” She lifted her eyes to stare into those blue irises that bore down on her like a laser. “I would have died for you.”

  “Then we’re even.” He picked a piece of lint off his trousers.

  This could be her moment. She could say she was sorry. She could drop to her knees and beg forgiveness. She could say and do so many things if only… All the words she wanted to say rose up into a sharp point, but where would she start? Could he ever understand what she’d done for him? No, why would he?

  “I’m sorry.” She swiped at her cheeks. Jesus, she had started to leak tears. She stood and held out her hand. “I should go. It really was good to see you, Alexander.”

  “Going somewhere?” He glanced at the window. “The storm isn’t abating.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” She jutted out her hand again. Please take it. Please show me you don’t hate me.

  He stood and finally took her offering. He turned her hand and ran his thumb over the pad of her palm. Then, took possession of her other hand. “No ring.”

  She shuddered at his caresses. “Divorced.”

  His other hand lifted a lock of her hair and twisted it around his finger. “Still like a sunset made of rose gold.”

  “My hairdresser loves me. Vain, I know.”

  “No, beautiful.” His fingers gathered more of her hair.

  His possessive move had once comforted her. Now it sent a warning. Run. Leave. Do not get sucked in, because then she really would have to tell him things. She knew this man—or had—and he’d want more, always more. “Alexander—”

  “Hush. No more handshakes. We’re past that.” He circled her waist with his free hand and pulled her closer.

  He was right. She hugged her mailman for God’s sake, though Mr. Evans didn’t entwine his fingers in her hair or stare down at her like he’d devour her soul. But then, that’s the way she and Alexander had constructed their relationship, hadn’t they? He commanded, and she obeyed, with Charles in between them doing whatever he wanted. God, what she would do to go back, start over. She’d do so many things differently.